


Scenes from a Hat

by poes



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Dragon Hanzo, F/F, Knight McCree, M/M, Multi, Tumblr Prompt, Tumblr Prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-10 05:54:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15285117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poes/pseuds/poes
Summary: A collection of short and sweet Tumblr prompts that I'm also posting over here! Hopefully to help tide over and inspire between updates of my other works. ;u;--Sompharah, McHanzo, Gencio, and probably others inbound!





	1. How the Tables Have Turned - Sompharah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what all the cool ovw writers do, right.
> 
> Prompt: "Sompharah, "well well well oh how the tables have turned?""
> 
> I love Girls.
> 
> Rated: T

There were many things Sombra was very talented at.

You could say she was a Jack of all Trades, but that would imply that she was not excellent at everything she did, which was false. She was a _Sombra_ of all Trades, which could become a new phrase, but that would imply that anyone was as good as her at as many things that she was good at, when she was one of a kind, of course, and really, this is getting complicated. The point was, Sombra did not fail often. It was a point of pride. Talon was child’s play; Reyes (or _Reaper,_ as he insisted he be called at _all_ times, _sheesh)_ believed everything she told him, and he reported to the higher ups, yada-yada. Overwatch was harder, but only just. Hacking into their systems took concentration and a solitary space nearby.

Only sometimes, things hit a snag. A _little_ snag. This was fine. Everything was fine.

The attractive, muscular woman across from her with a pistol pointed in Sombra’s general direction was _probably_ fine.

“So _you’re_ Sombra,” says the attractive, very muscular woman, with an eyebrow raised and the rest of her face looking both very attractive and mildly unimpressed. “Hm. I was expecting someone taller.”

Sombra smiles flirtatiously and lifts her hands away from the keyboard. “That you were expecting me at all is my main problem, but also, _ouch._ 5′5″ isn’t short.”

The very attractive, very mean woman scoffs. “You thought no one noticed your last breach in our security? I know the gorilla is the tech guy, but I _work_ security.”

Ah. Sombra flits through her file-folder mind before settling. “Fareeha Amari, eh? Isn’t your work in _physical_ security, not technical security? AI involvement and all that aside? You’re more of a puncher than a hacker, eh?”

Fareeha looks briefly startled, which is charming on her stern face, before readjusting her grip on her gun and taking a step further into the room. “If I can punch the hacker, I think I win.” Her body moves closer, and Sombra takes a moment to admire it even as she pities the fact that she won’t be seeing the Raptor armor up close; it seemed like the soldier had been out on her own time when she’d been called to check out the security breach. That she always carries a weapon her is not surprising; how good-looking she is in person is a bit more so. Really, it’s distracting. “Hands up.”

Sombra wiggles her hands, which are already up, and Fareeha blusters slightly.

“A-alright, now, you’re coming with me.”

“Already? We’ve only just met,” Sombra replies, thinking quickly as she rises to her feet, slowly, not wanting to startle her and earn a bullet wound in the chest. “I’ll comply with your demands, _chica,_ just don’t shoot me.” She reaches for her laptop bag, then freezes when Fareeha audibly slips the safety off. “Okay… so no bags.”

“Did you really think I’d let you take your bag?”

“No,” Sombra sighs, meeting eyes with her, “but it doesn’t matter.”

Fareeha blinks once before Sombra chucks the bag at her face, and there’s a gunshot, but it misses. Sombra kicks her laptop, heel down, with a grimace - gonna need a new one of those - and hears the keyboard snap. Fareeha aims and fires at her again, this time snagging her on the bicep, and Sombra scampers down across the ground with a hiss, slamming herself against Fareeha and shoving her against the wall. Fareeha doesn’t drop the gun, but Sombra grabs her by the wrists and snaps them at her sides against the wall, briefly stopping herself from getting shot.

“I’ve heard about you,” Sombra purrs, looking up at the woman who is, disappointingly, much taller than Sombra. “You’re _very_ impressive. Are you sure we can’t talk this out?”

Fareeha sneers down at her, already flexing her way out of the hold. “I can still punch you,” she growls, and rips her wrist from Sombra’s hold, rearing back for what was definitely a very attractive and very muscular delivery on her promise.

Sombra wishes it wasn’t _her_ that was getting punched, because she’d enjoy it a lot more.

Instead, she clicks a button on her glove’s inner palm and disappears from in front of Fareeha’s fist. She drops from the soldier’s vision, hurrying away from her and snatching at her bag as she runs past it. Fareeha lets out a startled noise and fires at the place Sombra had just been, then immediately begins firing after the bag when she spots it moving. Bullets skirt at Sombra’s heels.

_Yeesh._

She reappears just outside the door, peeking in on the soldier’s stunned expression. Fareeha reacts quickly, lifting her gun and aiming - Sombra’s just faster, slamming the door and laughing brightly. _“Demasiado lento,_ gorgeous! If you ever want to barge into my room _without_ the gun, hit me up!”

Two bullet holes appear in the door, one on either side of Sombra’s waist, just barely missing.

_YEESH._

“So that’s a no?” Sombra grabs the translocator from the laptop bag, quickly switching it on and swiveling her head to find a place to chuck it.

The door slams open, and Fareeha lifts her pistol.

“Okay bye!” Sombra throws her translocator and prays, watching it land just far enough down in the city of Gibraltar that she can slip into an alleyway and disappear. There’s a blink, and she’s gone.

She’s sure to snatch her machine back up as she lands, and then disappears once more. In the distance, she hears a frustrated noise from Fareeha and bites her lip.

_Once she knows what I’m doing, maybe we’ll laugh about this! Over drinks. That’d be nice._

For now, though, she sighs and pulls out her phone, already searching where she can find a replacement laptop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to send me prompts at [my tumblr!](http://poes.tumblr.com)


	2. The Shovel Talk - Gencio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A response to the prompt "Can I get some Gencio where Genji's introducing Lucio and Hanzo for the first time. Seems to me it'd be a wild time."
> 
> You may not know this, dear reader, but I actually love Gencio more than I know what to do with.
> 
> Rated: G

This was never going to be a pleasant experience.

Genji glances sideways at his brother, who is fixing his hair while trying to look as if he isn’t fixing his hair. Lucio is just down the hall; Genji can hear his boyfriend chatting animatedly to himself as he works at his laptop, presumably on some new music. He often talked to himself while he worked; Genji finds it endearing to the point of being completely smitten with it, but he can see that the bright tone of Lucio’s voice is making Hanzo shift nervously on his feet as they walk slowly toward it.

Lucio had been away on a mission when Hanzo first arrived at Overwatch’s Gibraltar base. Now, though, there was nothing to stop the two from meeting, which, understandably, was something Genji had not been looking forward to.

Hanzo, despite his cold demeanor (that is slowly, _slowly_ warming), has made it clear through his discomfort that he wants Lucio to _not_ hate him.

The problem is, Lucio will not like Hanzo even a little bit.

Which is… okay, Genji… gets it. He hadn’t really been all that fond of his brother for a long time, either. He really does get it.

It’s the same reason Angela had plastered a smile on her face that she put on for strangers and people she was uncomfortable with, and dropped it as soon as Hanzo left, the first time.

It was the same reason McCree went sniffing around after Hanzo at every one of the archer’s turns, eyeballing Genji out of the corner of his eye as if he couldn’t believe Genji was defending him.

They loved Genji, and Hanzo had… well, Hanzo wasn’t exactly in the top ten favorite people in the world for people that loved Genji.

The both of them were coming around - or at least weren’t being openly hostile - but Genji isn’t sure how Lucio is going to react.

Lucio is his _boyfriend,_ and he doesn’t really have a penchant for keeping quiet about the things he believes. Genji had asked him to give Hanzo a chance, and Lucio had responded with a flippant noise and narrowed eyes, only sighing and adding a “I’ll play nice” when Genji plaintively said his name.

Genji pauses outside his door. Hanzo stops, too, flexing his hands the way he always did when he wasn’t sure what to do with them. That hadn’t changed. Something about that makes Genji’s jaw set.

“Ready?” he asks, gently, and Hanzo flicks black eyes at him before visibly gritting his teeth.

“Of course,” his brother replies, insulted at even being asked, and Genji watches with a small amount of bemusement as Hanzo marches determinedly ahead to the room ahead of him.

He stops right inside the doorframe, though, and as Genji slides into the room beside him, he can see Lucio has immediately looked up, eyes locking with Hanzo’s and the smile falling from his face. Lucio flicks his eyes over to Genji, who grimaces, and then pulls his headphones down around his neck and puts the laptop beside him.

He doesn’t smile again, which could mean anything. The DJ stands up, and despite Lucio being 5′3″, currently dressed in a turquoise tank top and loose, low-hanging black sweatpants, and 120 lbs soaking wet, he carries with him a presence that instantly makes Hanzo straighten his back. Hanzo swallows and looks down at the younger man, and Lucio looks back up at him.

Hanzo breaks first, which doesn’t surprise Genji in the slightest for some reason. His brother puts his hands at his sides and bows politely, then peers at Genji from the corner of his eye, something desperate in his face.

Oh. Right. “Ah… hey, Lu.” Lucio flicks his gaze back to Genji, and the cyborg feels slightly cowed under his eyes. His boyfriend could… definitely be intimidating when he wanted to be. Ill-hidden suspicion was coming off him in waves. “This is… my brother, Hanzo.”

Lucio hums, looking back at Hanzo and cocking a brow. “So you actually showed up. The way Genji talked about it, it was kinda up in the air there for a hot minute, eh?”

Hanzo straightens from his bow, meeting eyes with Lucio. His hands flex again. “Yes. It was… uncertain for myself, as well.”

Lucio shifts his weight from one leg to the other, folding his arms over his chest. “So why’d you come?”

Genji internally groans, knowing that this was what he should have expected, but still. Hanzo, beside him, lets his eyes drop to Lucio’s chest, in quiet contemplation.

“There is no redemption for what I have done. But my… but… Genji told me that this is what he believes will lead me down the path to… this is what he wants me to do.”

Lucio narrows his eyes. “But is it what _you_ want to do?”

Hanzo looks up, now, and is silent for a beat too long for comfort. Then he exhales, slow, heavy. Genji watches the weight press down on his shoulders. “I have not… really… _wanted_ to do anything for… quite some time. It wasn’t… something I… thought about. But I…” He glances at Genji in his peripheral, and then away. “I think so. Yes.”

The DJ gives him a scrutinizing look, and Genji, despite himself, takes a moment to admire the strength in his face, the easy way he dominates conversation even against someone as dominating as Hanzo is. Genji falls a bit more in love with him, the slender slope of his jaw and long lashes, and then blinks when Lucio’s voice returns.

“… Okay.” He shifts his weight again, and holds out a hand, looking up into Hanzo’s face, eyes still narrowed, but lips pursed in that way he gets when he’s trying to find the perfect beat to make the music sound just right. He looks at Hanzo like a rhythm he can’t quite get a grasp on, but is willing to work with until he can find something to lay over it. “I’m Lucio, and I’m dating your brother. I know I don’t gotta say anything else.” Hanzo says nothing, but his uneasy hand twitching says it all. Lucio frowns, and then holds out a hand. “It ain’t nice to meet you, man, but okay. Alright.”

Hanzo’s lips flatten a little, but he nods, and gives Lucio a firm, short handshake. Lucio’s eyes spark when they make skin contact, and he grabs Hanzo’s hand and gives it a squeeze that forces Hanzo to stay close to him for a split second longer than he clearly wants to; Hanzo pulls back quickly once he can, jaw tight. “I hope we work well together,” is all he says, though, and then, giving a courtesy nod to Genji, exits the room, clearly uncomfortable being where he is right now. Genji lets him go, watching him beat a retreat down the hall, probably back to his own room.

Genji will check up on him later.

For now, he turns to Lucio, who is already looking back at him, something in his eyes that makes Genji grin sheepishly.

“Thank you for being nice,” he says, stiff-leggedly walking over and dropping his arms around Lucio’s shoulders. Lucio’s grumpy expression softens into a smirk, and he shakes his head, lifting his hands to cradle Genji’s face.

“I wasn’t nice. He knows it, even if you don’t.” He wraps his arms around Genji’s neck as Genji lets his hands slide down to Lucio’s waist.

“Thank you for not immediately punching him, then.”

“… Did someone else do that?”

Genji huffs. “McCree came close.”

Lucio laughs quietly, and then drops his head to put his face on Genji’s chest. He’s silent for a moment, and the two of them sway in place. Genji runs his fingers up and down the small of Lucio’s back, waiting.

His voice, when it comes, is low and intent. “I love you. That’s why I’m being nice. And why I want you two to work this out. But I don’t have to like him.”

Genji feels sadness grip his heart, but just smiles through it, and drops a small kiss on Lucio’s head.

 _“Arigatō,_ my love. That is all I can ask for.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to send me prompts at [my tumblr!](http://poes.tumblr.com)


	3. Golden Dragon - McHanzo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A response to the prompt:
> 
> "McHanzo, McCree wearing Hanzo's hair ribbon :O"
> 
> Rated: T  
> Tags: Fluff. Too much fluff.

It is early in the morning when Hanzo wakes up to an empty bed.

This is… unusual. Usually, McCree woke up after Hanzo, and more than that, he absolutely insisted on staying in bed for as long as possible. Hanzo had grown used to waking up with McCree snuggled up tight in his arms, and the cowboy would wake up immediately if Hanzo made moves to leave the bed, latching on and kissing Hanzo’s throat until the archer complied with the silent demand, usually laughing.

Still, Hanzo reaches out a sleepy hand and feels the bed is warm beside him. And, more than that, when he cracks an eye open, McCree is within view, standing at the bedside table.

In his hands is Hanzo’s hair ribbon, the silk cradled carefully in rough, calloused palms. He watches as Jesse rubs his thumb over the fabric, then begins to attempt to tie his hair up with it.

He flinches as Hanzo lets a low chuckle rumble from his sleep-scratched throat, but doesn’t put the ribbon down, only turning to grin sheepishly at him.

“Mornin’, Han,” Jesse says.

“You’ll need a hair-tie,” Hanzo replies, and scoots closer to pull one from the beside drawer.

He smirks as Jesse blusters with faint embarrassment at being caught. “I am honestly surprised it took you so long to try to do that,” he offers, retrieving a black ponytail-holder and then sitting up in bed, pressing his back to the headboard. He gestures to Jesse, who comes closer obediently. He sinks and sits on Hanzo’s lap, bringing his heat back. Hanzo hums with satisfaction. “But the ribbon itself cannot hold my hair up.”

Jesse chuckles, dipping his head and pressing his face to the warm side of Hanzo’s throat. Hanzo easily works around his cuddling, pulling his fingers through the cowboy’s hair and guiding it into a small knot on the top of his head. “It’s the only thing of yours I thought’d fit me alright. You always look real good in my clothes, but…”

Hanzo huffs, finishing pulling his hair up and then gently taking the ribbon from McCree’s hands. He blinks sleep from his eyes, but he is content, rumbling lowly in the domestic, easy morning. McCree smells like maple syrup and the sex they’d had the night before. And maybe like he also needs a shower.

But it just adds to the atmosphere; two people, comfortable with each other, easy touching and trailing fingers. Hanzo silently reflects on this before quirking a smile as Jesse kisses the spot on Hanzo’s throat where his mouth is. The whiskers tickle. “That is because you are larger than me everywhere but the arms and shoulders, and you do not seem to mind me stretching those parts of your clothing out.” He ties the ribbon, and lays it over the back of McCree’s neck.

Jesse hums a laugh. “Sure don’t.”

He sits up in Hanzo’s lap, and Hanzo smirks at him, letting his hands slide down to Jesse’s shoulders. The cowboy smiles, then leans back a little more to pose, snapping his head sideways so the ribbon flutters. “How do I look?”

Hanzo chuckles, rubbing his thumbs up the sides of Jesse’s neck and then down his chest to settle. “Handsome,” he replies. He lets his eyes go half-lidded, watching Jesse preen a little, and his smile falls into thoughtfulness.

Jesse doesn’t prod, because he’s very good about not prodding, and it means that Hanzo is comfortable voicing his thoughts.

“My mother gave me this hair tie,” he murmurs, lifting a hand to drag the ribbon through his fingers, gently enough to not pull it from Jesse’s hair. The cowboy blinks. “She gave it to me when I was 16 years old. It was her own. Something my father had gifted to her when they began courting. My mother did not wear hair ribbons often,” he continues, smiling faintly with the memory of his mother’s stern, uptied hair, never falling out of place, never decorated, and how it contrasted with the kindness of her face. “My father did not know that, initially, of course.” Hanzo looks down at the golden _seigaiha_ pattern, then follows the natural waves up, eventually settling his eyes on Jesse’s face again. “Genji still has his, as well.”

They are silent for a moment. Hanzo remembers his mother giving it to him, her eyes crinkled just a little with a smile. _“Hang on to it for me,”_ she’d said, amusement in her voice. _“Perhaps it will benefit you more. I know your love of drama. I can see you now… standing in the light of a moon… the only thing blowing in the breeze… your golden hair ribbon, scaled like a dragon. So scary,”_ she’d added, smiling wider when Hanzo had grinned. _“Intimidating. Like a superhero.”_

_“You really think I can be a hero?”_ Hanzo had asked, just on the cusp of being too old to believe he had any control of his future. It was because of his mother he still held any hope at all.

_“If you want to be,”_ she’d agreed, her dark eyes flickering with something like regret. _“Then these scales will help you as long as they are at your side.”_

Golden scales. Like her dragon had possessed.

Hanzo shakes his head, then smiles up at Jesse, who is looking at him with a touch of concern in those bottle-brown eyes.

“It is the last thing my mother gave me before she passed,” he says, and lifts his hands to cradle Jesse’s cheeks, swiping his thumbs under the man’s eyes. “My father gave it to her, and she gave it to me. So…” He isn’t sure where he’s going with this, but as he looks at his lover in the pale light of the morning, he thinks the gold suits him. “… Perhaps it has finally found its proper home with us. An heirloom of the Shimada Clan… now resting on the brow of my lover. I wonder what the elders would think.” He bares his teeth in a sneer, vindictive and prideful. “Too bad they’re dead.”

Jesse huffs softly, and then bends closer, letting their noses brush. Hanzo closes his eyes into the kiss, his brief rush of arrogance melting away in an instant, ignoring the morning breath for the tenderness of the moment.

“You think they’d like me?” Jesse asks, his voice carrying humor in it like he knows the answer.

Hanzo rumbles a laugh. “No.” He wraps his hands around the man’s waist and hoists, laying him down on the bed with a bounce. “I think that is why it looks so good on you.”

Jesse grins, then tries to pretend he’s scandalized. “Mr. Shimada, are you suggesting you’re just with me to make some old folks mad?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Hanzo replies, eyes gleaming as he lays himself flat on top of Jesse, a languid cat claiming a patch of warm earth. “Did you think I was in love with every breath you draw, with every step you take, with every word you speak? Pfa. No, this was all a ploy to get back at dead men.”

Jesse wraps his arms around Hanzo, holding him close and pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Works for me.”

Jesse leaves the room with the hair ribbon still in, and Hanzo watches the golden flutter trace after him, thinking that, yes, the elders would have hated Jesse.

But perhaps his mother would approve of her golden dragon watching the back of this man Hanzo loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to send me prompts at [my tumblr!](http://poes.tumblr.com)


	4. Sugar - McHanzo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "I just really want those two out on a little date where McCree either takes notice of Hanzo's massive sweet tooth (if he didn't already know) or mindlessly spoils Hanzo with sweets he knows the archer can't resist."
> 
> Hanzo's sweet tooth is the reason I exist.
> 
> Rated: T  
> Tags: Even Fluffier Than Before

Jesse likes to think he’s a bit of a Hanzo _connoisseur._ Sure, he doesn’t exactly have the man down pat, 100%, but Hanzo was an enigma. He doesn’t think he’ll know _everything_ about Hanzo when they’re both 90 years old and sittin’ in rocking chairs somewhere, even if he asked him something new every day.

But that’s just who Hanzo is. Jesse knows he’s the same way, and that’s just the way they’re gonna be.

Still, he knows the important things.

He knows Hanzo likes mornings. He likes waking up and sprawling out in bed, letting Jesse monopolize his space and press kisses to his shoulders and spine. He likes eventually pulling himself from Jesse’s arms with fond words and a hand gently cupping Jesse’s cheek, looking down at him like some kind of sleepy angel, all dark eyes and glowing gold in the light that shines through the curtains. He ignores Jesse’s begging to stay, a laugh in his throat that to any other man would be mocking, but to Jesse is fond. He likes saying, “I will be right back, Jesse,” and he likes pretending to be surprised when Jesse greets him at the door as soon as he returns, careful not to spill the tea he has in his hand. He likes calling Jesse foolish for his eagerness, but does nothing to stop the kisses placed sweet on his jawline.

He knows Hanzo likes work. The archer will spend hours in the training room, hours upon hours, ceaseless, his concentration never wavering as he fires arrow after arrow into target after target. Jesse thought of himself as pretty dedicated to making sure his marksmanship stayed up, but he was nothing compared to Hanzo. He sometimes accompanied his lover into the training room, and while shot for shot he thinks he may have the upper hand accuracy-wise, the _endurance_ Hanzo held within him was nothing short of monumental. Hanzo had explained, once, that he actually had begun to find enjoyment out of pushing himself, though the discussion as to _why_ he had pushed himself so hard before coming here is neatly tabled for another day.

And he knows Hanzo likes quiet. He likes that Jesse doesn’t mind sitting in silence with him some days, casually curled together as they watch some movie or read some book. He likes looking over Jesse’s blog posts as _Joel Morricone,_ a name he always says softly aloud to himself when he reads, like it amuses him. He likes spending the hours after a mission silently unwinding, puttering around their room as he stretches, rubs his eyes, tries to work out the rest of his nerves. He likes Jesse quietly smoothing his hands up and down Hanzo’s spine when he jerks awake from a bad dream, neither speaking, waiting until the archer’s panicked panting faded away into nothingness.

But he supposes he’s never noticed Hanzo’s proclivity for sweets until today.

Well. It ain’t that he hasn’t noticed, exactly. He’d seen Hanzo drops a few more sugar cubes than strictly necessary into the rare cups of coffee he’d had, and drizzle more honey into his tea than Jesse thought was rightly stern enough to suit the man. But he’d never commented on it, half because Hanzo always eyed him defiantly when he saw Jesse notice, and half because maybe the sugar just woke him up.

But it’s nothing like seeing the light spark up behind his content grey eyes when they pass by a bakery with all the little treats displayed in the window. Hanzo immediately tries to downplay it, trying to continue walking along when a peripheral glance reveals McCree noticing him, but Jesse stops, and Hanzo, holding hands with him, must also stop.

It’s the winding down part of their date. They’d already had dinner, and took a walk through the city that felt downright domestic. Jesse still doesn’t really know how the two of them ended up like this; like they’re some kind of normal couple that just walks through the city and points at little shops that they wander through, how they sat on a brick wall and people watched for an hour. They don’t really get a lot of time just to spend together; while they’re often assigned to missions together, Hanzo is all business on those trips, and it’s probably for the best. It’s only when they get back to base that Hanzo lets himself be gathered up in Jesse’s arms without complaint.

So Jesse tries to make the most of it, even when these little trips they take are just walking through the city, both dressed down to blend in but both of them also packing heat. It’s just who they are.

Hanzo never complains. Jesse likes to think he enjoys the calmness, and Jesse finds he likes it, too. It doesn’t have to be loud and flashy to be romantic.

Jesse thinks about that now as he side-eyes Hanzo, who, now that he’s been stopped, moves closer to the display window like he can’t help himself. He watches the archer peer in, eyeing a chocolate croissant, a big fluffy white cake, a little plate of cupcakes covered in pink icing. “Did you want to stop in here?” Hanzo asks, the way he does when he wants something but doesn’t want to be the one to say he wants it. The tone is increasingly easier to pick up on, though, Jesse supposes, not to anyone else ‘sides him.

Jesse smirks to himself and releases Hanzo’s hand to slide an arm around his waist. “Yeah,” he replies, the way he does when he’s giving Hanzo the easy out.

The archer leans into his hold, warm and firm, but also immediately begins making way for the entrance, and McCree is dragged along with a quiet chuckle.

The door chimes as the two of them enter, and the small girl behind the counter immediately perks and smiles at the two of them.

“Evening! Can I help you gentlemen with anything?”

Hanzo looks firmly like he’s trying to appear unaffected, so Jesse saunters closer to her and flashes his best smile. “Evenin’, ma’am. What do you recommend?”

The girl pushes her glasses up, flicking her eyes between them, and then smiles back. “Well, our cupcakes are top-notch. We’ve got some with filling like marshmallow and caramel…”

Jesse _feels_ Hanzo perk under his arm, though when he glances, he has the same expression of polite interest on his face. He bites back a smirk, shaking his head to himself.

He gets why Hanzo is this way. Of course he was; years spent not allowing himself shit, and years before that not _being_ allowed shit. Still, it dredges up a little part of him that Fareeha said was _sappy_ but what Jesse liked to think of as _thoughtful and maybe a little bit liking to spoil people, fine, geez._

Jesse’d not been able to have a lot of the shit he wanted for a long time, either.

“Tell you what. Two of each of those… filling cupcakes, chocolate.” He glances over the display case up here, and points at a few other things; those chocolate croissants, what looks like little colorful balls on sticks, a brownie. “Two of each of them.”

“Would you like a box?” The girl asks, and McCree grins at her.

“Yes, ma’am.”

By the time they leave, Hanzo is holding a box full of sweets and Jesse’s out some pocket change (despite the archer’s complaints - Jesse reminds him he paid for dinner). Still, the subdued glow behind Hanzo’s eyes is worth it.

They find a place to sit down, closer to their car but still out in the evening air, on a bench alongside the walking path. The sun is setting, low over the horizon, and Hanzo is golden under the light as he puts the box on his lap and considers his options.

Delight bubbles in Jesse’s heart; Hanzo’s never gonna be the type to squeal with happiness or anything, but just as good is the way he picks out one of the caramel-filled cupcakes with a soft smile. There’s a gentleness to him when they’re alone, like nothing he shows in front of anyone else. There’s a crinkle near his eyes that Jesse wants to lean down and press his lips to, just as sweet as the icing Hanzo licks a path through the bottom of. Jesse watches him circle the cupcake with his tongue and cocks his brow, and Hanzo catches him looking; his smile disappears for a slightly embarrassed frown.

“I do not want the icing getting on my face,” Hanzo mutters. Jesse grins at him, lifting the hand that’s not around Hanzo’s shoulders as if warding him off.

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You were thinking things,” Hanzo replies, narrowing his eyes, but the twitch in the corner of his mouth gives him away, as does the soft laugh he responds with when McCree leers suggestively. “Stop. Let me eat. You eat too.” He tries to press the other cupcake into Jesse’ hand.

“Why don’t I just share with you?”

Hanzo frowns, but his eyes are sparkling. “This one is mine. Get your own.”

Jesse laughs, and Hanzo laughs, too, but Hanzo does then proceed to wolf down the cupcake without even giving Jesse the opportunity to playfully (or romantically) take a bite from it. He eats it in like three bites, wiping caramel from the corner of his mouth with his thumb and sucking that off, too. That just makes Jesse laugh more.

Hanzo takes a croissant from the box and eats that, too, and while he’s kind of laughing at him, Jesse likes seeing him enjoy it.

“You know, I always kinda thought you might like sweet stuff, but today proved it,” he says, working his way through one of the marshmallow cupcakes.

“Hm,” Hanzo says, eating a cake pop in one bite. Jesse can’t keep the smile off his face. “What made you realize?”

“You load honey into your tea,” Jesse replies, shrugging, and then knocking his smile into a flirtatious one. “Plus, you like me, right? And I’m the sweetest thing on the Earth, including everything in that box.”

Hanzo squints at him, sticking some icing from his finger into his mouth. “… I believe the caramel beats you,” he says, licking his lips as they pull into a smile, and now his eyes are bright and warm.

Before Jesse can pull a mock-offended face, Hanzo leans up and presses a kiss to his mouth. Jesse leans into it, rumbling quietly, and feels Hanzo smile against him. “But perhaps just barely,” he hums, and Jesse can’t even argue.

Tasting the caramel on Hanzo’s lips is more cloying than anything he’s ever done.

When they get back to base, Hanzo hoards the sweets in their room like a dragon with his treasure. The rest of the pastries are gone before the next night, though Hanzo is gracious enough to let Jesse help eat them.

He doesn’t even mind when Jesse eats the cupcake straight from his fingers, and then presses little kisses on the pads there, claiming he’s getting the crumbs. Hanzo laughs at him, but his eyes are the color of candied sugar.

And maybe he’s got a bit of a sweet tooth, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to send me prompts at [my tumblr!](http://poes.tumblr.com)


	5. The Dragon of the South Wind - McHanzo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "McHanzo? "Fire cannot kill a dragon""
> 
> I... let this one get a little away from me.
> 
> Rated: T  
> Tags: Medieval Fantasy AU, Shapeshifter Dragon Hanzo, Knight McCree

There is nothing quite like realizing that the sky is moving.

Jesse stares up at the smoke billowing from the forest. His blade hangs at his side, heavy as a hammer.

Heavy as a white flag being lowered when the cries for blood are not sated.

Heavy as the weight of a beast’s paw.

Around him, his companions scrambles to and fro, not seeing what Jesse sees, not paying attention as the movement through the smoke unwinds and uncurls. Serpentine, but greater. And not as one; there are multiple sinuous movements casting a shade through the blaze, separate. Jesse cannot see, blinking through the blinding sting of smog, but he thinks there are perhaps two.

Perhaps three.

And there is a mighty rumble, a thunder like something heavy has fallen, and then with a great rush of wind, the smoke clears for just a moment. His companions stop; Zarya, beside him, lets out a noise like she’s being strangled, her hands locked tight around her great-axe.

Before them, and in front of what appears to be a massive, clawed hand, stands a man. His eyes are black glass, and his hair is black silk, a sheet of shadow billowing out behind him like a flame. He looks at Jesse and sees into him.

The Dragon of the South Wind.

The smoke from the fire is still around him like a cloud; almost like he had ridden down on it, but that’s impossible. McCree’s eyes want to believe it, though; the man in front of him seems more mist than permeable, fading in and out of view with the swirling gray.

And all the noise stops. Only the crackling of the flame remains, the curl of the breeze rattling in McCree’s ears.

The forest is burning down around him, yet the Dragon seems unconcerned. He is wearing the blue he is known for, a navy so deep to almost be black, and a golden ribbon is tied around his waist like a sash, only adding a glimmer of light to an otherwise dark man. There is no armor on him, only the kind of robe that royalty would wear, untarnished and flawless, intricately created.

He is still looking at Jesse, as if he knows who the one who started this fire was.

Perhaps he does. Jesse struggles to maintain the eye contact, but he manages, looking into the depths of ice and seeing only the reflection of himself in return. After a moment, the Dragon lifts a brow, and folds his hands behind his back. Almost like an acknowledgement.

“Jesse,” Zarya grits beside him, and he doesn’t know why for a moment. Then he realizes he is moving closer. His feet carry him without his input, but he makes no effort to stop them, letting himself be somewhat pulled to the Dragon.

The man is beautiful, as he’d been warned. The man likely carried elven blood somewhere in his veins, the rumors said, though as Jesse looks at him he thinks that the rumors are unfounded. He looks as if he gained the high cheekbones, the strong brow, the bearded chin and tan skin though pure intimidation alone. Like perhaps he could look however he wanted to look at any given moment, and it was so. Jesse isn’t sure what to do with that.

What he’s less sure of what to do with is the smoke being unable to hide everything the closer he gets. The clawed hand behind the Dragon is absolutely attached to something, and as Jesse brings himself to a slow stop about 20 feet away, he can see that the hand is attached to an arm, and that arm swoops up and disappears, but far, _frighteningly_ far above that hand, he can see what appears to be a muzzle. The muzzle is scaly, a color Jesse cannot distinguish. Teeth protrude from the upper jaw, looking as long as Jesse’s arm and twice the width. Bizarrely, a long whisker seems to emerge from either side of its maw, disappearing down into the smoke. Worst of all, above it, Jesse can almost make out two pinpricks of blue light.

Worse still, Jesse can still see slithering movement in the smoke beyond, but the beast behind the Dragon does not move.

At least two, then.

Jesse lets his eyes return to the man, who has not stopped looking at him, though now there is something in his face that sends shivers down Jesse’s spine. He looks _amused,_ and as harmless an emotion as that would appear to be on any other being, on the Dragon, there is an intimidation behind it. The man reads like blood on the bedframe of a new lover – an unwelcome uncertainty of the things you know. A risk to acknowledge, a risk to ignore.

He does not laugh; instead, he tips his chin higher, and despite having a few inches on the Dragon, Jesse feels every bit like the man is looking down at him. He feels like a canary under the claws of a cat.

When he speaks, Jesse is almost surprised to hear that his voice sounds… mortal. That it doesn’t rumble with the sounds of a thousand screams or some odd. No, his voice is like gravel on ash. It pulls out of him as if he isn’t sure how to do it properly, low and rough and sticking like sap.

“You have come here to attempt to slay me.”

There is a rumble in the air, growling with the depth of an avalanche. Jesse hears his men unsheathe weapons behind him, but they stay in place, as they were ordered to do. In the distance, _frighteningly_ far in the distance, Jesse hears the whipcrack of something smashing into trees and ripping them from the root.

Jesse stares at the man, and then steels himself, sheathing his sword. The Dragon watches silently, and then smirks. He says nothing more, just looking at Jesse with eyes like a snake. Hypnotic. Jesse almost expects a second eyelid to blink sideways across the pupil.

“You are… unlike anything me or my people have ever dealt with before,” Jesse responds, speaking quietly so to assure his voice does not shake. “As far as we were told, the dragons eradicated themselves from within. We have not seen your kind in these lands… in centuries.”

The Dragon of the South Wind tips his head back as if considering. Jesse squints at him through the smoke of the blazing flame, blinking moisture away to run tracks down the side of his cheeks. Then he opens one wide hand, sweeping it out across the path of fire burning through the forest, not taking his eyes from Jesse. “And am I to believe the fire burning in my path was a show of welcome?”

Jesse grits his teeth, but manages to keep his voice light, even as the smoke attempts to rasp it. “We have been told you are burning down cities in your journey across the land, Dragon. Perhaps we just wanted to show you you are not the only one who knows how to wield it.”

The Dragon looks up at him and there is something in his eyes. He steps closer, 15 feet away, now. Jesse does not so much hear his companions moving behind him as he does hear them all hold their breaths. He can hear them unstrapping their bows, hear the arrows being prepared. But the Dragon does not come closer than that, even as the beasts he hides behind him rumble and shift, coiling in the shadows beyond Jesse’s vision. “What is your name, that you would insinuate to stop me? Are you king of this land? Is the city before me home to your people?”

Jesse huffs, genuinely amused at the guess, and shakes his head. “No, sir. I am Jesse of Westwater, though some call me Jesse the Quick.”

The Dragon sweeps a speculative glance at him, and then lifts one brow, one side of his mouth ticking up. He is amused again, not threatened in the least. “The Quick? How unfortunate for you and yours.”

Jesse grits his teeth at what he’s implying, feeling heat rise up the back of his neck, and continues on, “I am no king, but I’ve been hired to stop you for a reason. I am good at my job and I’m not inexpensive.”

The Dragon’s amusement falls away. “A hired blade? Beneath me.” He steps closer. 10 feet now. Jesse feels any comfort in their distance diminish. “Are there any amongst you with authority?” His voice rises, now, and carries across the field. The company shifts uneasily; they are being led by Jesse, who steps to the side to intercept the Dragon’s vision.

“I’m the one leading these men. I’m not just _any_ hired blade. Our king wouldn’t be so crass as to send any old nobody to greet you.”

The Dragon wets his teeth. _“Now_ I am being greeted?”

“I’m a friend of the family. Of sorts,” Jesse says, and struggles not to flex his hand on the hilt of Peacekeeper. The Dragon squints at him. “We were sent to see what you want and who you are, Dragon. And to, perhaps, warn you from burning our city to the ground.”

The man looks at him, still and silent as a reptile, and then steps forward.

Immediately, a rain of arrows volleys between the two of them, landing at the Dragon’s feet and catching the grass just there ablaze. The Dragon stops, looking down as the fire burns around him in an instant, and there is a hissing and a snarling in the trees beyond the smoke. Jesse flicks his eyes up to see those pinpricks of blue light move closer.

It is unmistakable now. The rumors of the Dragon being accompanied by creatures of his crest were true. Jesse has never seen dragons like this before, not in pictures or in description; they are long, long, seemingly miles long, winding and endless and cresting like waves. Jesse looks up into a head as big as a building and meets eyes that are older than language.

But too fast, his attention is drawn back to the man, who steps through the flames as if they’re nothing, reaches up, and grabs Jesse by the cuirass. “Foolish man. You have chosen the wrong weapon. _Fire cannot kill a dragon.”_

The heat of his palm burns through the metal, and even as Jesse quickly holds out a hand to stop his people from attacking - he can already hear Fareeha’s low growl even from here, but the instant they open fire, the man might sic his beasts upon them - he lets out a startled noise as the Dragon pulls him down to face level.

His eyes are burning, burning, no longer black but the lightning strike of blue that sends a shock of terror up Jesse’s spine. His hand is molten, searing against Jesse’s chestplate, and he suddenly realizes with a belated type of horror that the metal is bubbling and oozing under the man’s palm. He is melting the plackart away, the hound there disappearing under his fingers.

And now, when he speaks, there is an echo in his voice that seems to emanate from the sky, from the ground, from the earth. From the beasts, though their mouths don’t move.

_“You will not stop me on my quest,”_ the Dragon hisses, the words playing over his tongue like he is imparting a prophecy. _“I have been searching for years upon years, and the appeals of mortals have never ceased to spur me. I am beyond what you see, Jesse of Westwater. Your existence will cease long before I am finished.”_ He lifts his hand to grab Jesse by the throat, and for an instant Jesse is certain the man will blaze through his skin and kill him, without thought, but suddenly the palm is not molten, the skin just a breath too warm, almost intimate. _“But you are close with the royalty of this city. My journey has brought me here, and the man I seek lies within your castle’s walls. Perhaps you will serve me well.”_ A garble enters his voice, like its been forced from the throat of something that should not speak. _“And if not, we will find the answer ourselves.”_

And like that, the hand is changing, morphing, sharpening, and Jesse has barely a moment to blink before the smoke is blown into his face by sudden movement. The shapes hiding in the forest are unwinding rapidly, and there _are_ two, Jesse blinks through tears as they slither between Jesse and his companions, massive walls of scales, and he can hear the yells of fear and anger and the sound of arrows being loosed and of Zarya swinging her great-axe, but it’s too late, it’s too late.

The man before him is hard to see, but the lightning in his eyes has overtaken them completely, and they are glowing a fierce, bright blue, pupil gone, iris gone, nothing but blue light. His face changes, sharpening, extending, sharp teeth lengthening from his handsome mouth, and it is so sudden as to be frightening when suddenly Jesse is pulled from the ground and into the air.

He lets out a shout, and feels the hand still around him but impossibly larger, and then there is a rush of wind and he is pulled higher, higher, into the air.

A grasp at the hand does nothing for him, but beneath his fingers, he believes he can feel scales. Disoriented, he looks up, and with the smoke cleared away, there is nothing hiding the thing that holds him.

A long, sinuous body. The gleam of black scales, the lightning blue eyes, the wingless, serpentine movements through the air. The dragon lets out a roar that shakes the very sky, and Jesse feels very suddenly overwhelmed.

Dizzy, frightened, he slumps in the dragon’s claws, and the man-turned-beast only readjusts his grip, soaring into the sky. Jesse watches the earth move further and further away, and then the edges of his vision go fuzzy.

And, wind whirling in his ears, the heat of a paw around his body, he is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to send in prompts at [my tumblr!](http://poes.tumblr.com)


End file.
